


Such Cheery Duplication

by coricomile



Series: Twins! [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Patrick Stumph is born at seven thirty-six AM on April twenty-seventh. Fifteen minutes later, Patrick Martin follows, screaming murder the whole way. (They haven't forgiven their parents for naming them the same thing. It's doubtful they ever will.) A story about twins, lying, rock bands, and above all falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Cheery Duplication

Martin Patrick Stumph is born at seven thirty-six AM on April twenty-seventh. Fifteen minutes later, Patrick Martin follows, screaming murder the whole way. (They haven't forgiven their parents for naming them the same thing. It's doubtful they ever will.) Sometimes Patrick wonders how things would have been the other way around. Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like it they'd been born as one instead of two.

They spend their toddler years banging on pots together in the kitchen, slipping in and out of each other's racecar beds at leisure. Their mother dresses Patrick in red and Martin in blue and pretends she never gets them confused. It's the start in a long line of confusion. 

It's both incredibly special and incredibly infuriating to have someone around constantly. Patrick spends most of elementary school being Martin's voice, babbling at whoever dared to try to peek into their little bubble of sameness. In return, Martin curls up with him at night and tells him fantastic stories about knights and dragons and things that pop in the night, using up all the words he couldn't anywhere else. 

They don't ever really grow out of sharing a bed. In his head, Patrick knows that it's not right. When they start bumping elbows and knees and falling out onto the floor, they push their tiny beds together. Their mother thinks they're making forts. Their father doesn't think much of them at all. The racecar beds eventually turn into bunk beds that can't be moved together. They learn to work around it.

At twelve, they stumble into their first school dance in matching grey suits. Martin wears a red pocket square, Patrick a blue one. Sometimes, their mother still confuses them. They've since learned to use it to their advantage instead of feeling stung at the implications. 

Patrick has had a crush on Lisa Rollins for months. She's wearing a printed pink dress, a white flower ticked into her dark hair. Her braces flash in the light of the gym every time she smiles. She's beautiful and kind, and Patrick's heart speeds up when he spots her. He's been sharing smiles across homeroom and math for weeks, fumbling over small talk.

Martin pats him on the shoulder and heads toward the drink table. Patrick is going to ask Lisa to dance or die trying. (He's been practicing in his room, ignoring Martin's snickering. He's hoping she'll be impressed enough to let him take her to the movies.) There are butterflies in his stomach, his heart thudding in his throat.

He takes a deep breath and a determined step in Lisa's direction. She smiles when she sees him, all flashing, and blinding bright. Patrick can barely hear the music over the rush of blood in his ears. He's never been so nervous. 

"Hey," Lisa says. Her small hand is wrapped around a red plastic cup, her nails a matching color. Patrick swallows against the dryness in his throat. 

"Hi," he chokes out. In the corner of his eye, he can see Martin watching, his smile big and encouraging. Patrick wipes his hands on his slacks and tries not to wring them anxiously. "I uh."

"Where's Patrick?" Lisa asks. Time seems to crawl to a stop. 

"What?" Patrick asks, slow motion heartbreak setting in. There's a brief moment before all the excitement sinks out of him. Out of all the people they've fooled, he'd always thought she could tell them apart. He feels sick. Sad. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you guys apart," Lisa says. She's laughing. Patrick feels like something is crushing him. His chest aches down into his lungs. 

"I have to go," Patrick says, thick and heavy and raw. Across the room, Martin's face falls like he already knows what happened. When he looks back on it, Patrick thinks this is the moment that changed them.

\---

Patrick feels sick.

His stomach turns angrily, last night’s drinks boiling up his throat. He groans and clutches his stomach, knees curling up toward his chest. Above him, he can hear Martin doing the same thing, the bunk bed creaking like nails on a chalkboard. He’s still got his shoes on. 

“We’re never drinking again,” Patrick moans pathetically. He kicks at his covers weakly, trying to untangle his legs from the sheets. The heat feels sweltering, sweat on his back and chest, stuck in the hollows of his knees. 

“You always say that,” Martin answers. His voice sounds like thunder in Patrick’s sensitive ears. Patrick groans again.

There’s a weak ray of sunlight peeking through the curtains. He’s got shit to do today, but there’s nothing that he wants more than staying in bed until his hangover disappears. Something crashes above him, and then Martin’s tripping his way down from his bunk, swinging ungracefully into Patrick’s. He’s heavy and too hot, but Patrick can’t summon enough energy to shove him off. 

“I hate you,” Martin grumbles. His breath is kind of rank. Patrick hums in response, throwing a lazy arm over Martin’s bare back. 

They doze off and on for hours, Patrick trapped warm and snug under Martin’s weight. He thinks idly about the audition he's got after dinner, about what songs he's going to play for them. Thinks about the sheer number of shots he’d let Martin talk him into last night. A decent sixteenth birthday party if he’s going to be honest. He wonders if there’s cake left in the fridge, the grumbling in his stomach moving from nausea to hunger. 

Martin’s been talking about going to a summer camp, tossing the idea back and forth without any real consideration. Part of Patrick wants him to go, wants him to do something more productive than hang out with his Playstation all break, but the rest of him is still stubbornly clinging to his brother with everything he’s got. Break just doesn’t sound as good without him. Patrick wriggles out from under Martin when his stomach is too loud to ignore. They’ll talk about it eventually. Martin talks big, but he’s usually too lazy to actually do anything that he plans. (Patrick is the doer. Martin is the planner. Together, they’re fairly competent.)

The clock above the oven reads four thirteen. Patrick scratches a hand through his hair and aims for the counter. There’s a hefty chunk of cake left that’s literally got his name on it, smeared green piping over the icing. He eats it right off the cardboard, leaned over the counter. It doesn’t do anything to really settle his stomach, but it tastes fucking delicious.

By five he's managed to shower and dress himself. Martin's still sleeping, open mouthed and half naked on Patrick's bed. He'll be up all night with Laura Croft. Their parents aren't due back for another day, but Patrick still starts tidying up out of boredom. They've got a dinner date set up at some restaurant in Wilmette tomorrow night, an official birthday thing for the family. Patrick isn't really looking forward to the stiffness of it. At five thirty, the doorbell rings.

(This is where things start to get complicated. This is where he meets Pete Wentz and sings loudly in his basement and feels something solid click in his tired, achy chest. This, really, is the beginning.)

\---

Patrick's burnt skin buzzes in the heat. Martin's made good on his word and gone to summer camp, trading in his laptop for a pen and homemade pulp paper. Patrick's spent more time at Joe's place than in his own empty bedroom, but he still misses his brother so much it kind of hurts. He's laying in the back of Pete's mom's minivan, arms and cheek sticking to the seat, whiling away the time before curfew. 

He can kind of see the stars through the window, but Pete's head blocks most of the way. Pete's laughing at whatever story he's telling, eyes pinpoints in the darkness, teeth white, white, white against the darkness of his skin. Patrick isn't really sure where they are, but it doesn't matter because Pete's one of the coolest people he knows. He'd probably go anywhere with him if Pete asked.

They've played thirteen and a half shows in a month, crammed into corners of rooms and backyards and weird places with shitty acoustics, and it's been the best time of Patrick's life. He loves music and loves being able to finally help write it, and he loves Joe and Pete and TJ like they're already part of the family. He’s had bands before, but he’s never felt this close to them. He's never felt like they were family before.

"You're zoning, Stumph," Pete says, emphasizing the _ph_. Patrick rolls his head to the side, neck popping, and lets himself really look at Pete. He’s already familiar with the lines of his face and the way his hair curls a little when he gets too hot, the way his voice gets loose and loud as the night goes on. Pete’s like -- Pete’s a friend. A real, solo friend that he has all to himself. 

"Your mom," he says. He's kind of tired. Kind of -- he doesn't know. Weird. He feels weird. Like something is missing. (Martin. He knows it's because Martin is missing.) 

Pete laughs, full and loud and obnoxious. He tumbles into the backseat ungracefully, smashing Patrick down into the seat. His breath smells kind of like cigarette smoke, mentholated. There's a long moment when Pete's just watching him, his smile fading slowly into something a little less stretched. When Patrick touches the curve of his shoulder tentatively, he presses into it. It feels a lot like tension breaking. 

When Pete kisses him, Patrick tries not to think of two summers ago when he and Martin had laid in bed all day, kissing slow and thorough, learning how to work the curves of someone else's mouth. Martin's since used his learned skills on girls in art class, laughing with them behind the pottery kiln. Patrick - Patrick just hasn't found the opportunity. 

Pete kisses like he knows what he's doing, sure and just a little rough. The seat belt clasps dig into Patrick's hip, the small of his back. He holds onto Pete like he's going to fall over. Like vertigo will catch up and swallow him if he lets go. Pete holds on just as tight. 

"Is this okay?" Pete asks later. He has his hand on Patrick's crotch, arm shoved awkwardly between them. He's hot through the fabric of Patrick's jeans, touch too much and not enough.

"Yeah," Patrick says, trying to push up into him. Pete's too heavy though, pins him down easily. Patrick can feel how hard Pete is against his stomach. It's a little overwhelming.

(He did this. He made this happen.)

Pete mouths at Patrick's throat, his jaw. Bites at his skin hard enough to sting. His hand is still over Patrick's dick but he's grinding his hips down, pressing their bodies together. The windows are fogged. The part of Patrick that doesn't know what he's doing wants to laugh, stuck thinking about Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in the back of a Renault. The rest of him is trying desperately not to come.

Pete kisses him again, messy and hard and just enough to make Patrick feel like everything else in the world has gone away. He kicks his trapped, cramped legs against the door and trips into orgasm like it's an accident. 

When Pete sits up, all his weight on Patrick's aching thighs, Patrick can see the hard line of his dick pressing against his zipper. He wants to reach for it, wants to jerk Pete off, but Pete doesn't let him. Just shoves his hand into his own jeans and rocks up against it, eyes slipping half closed. Patrick, open mouthed and sweaty and wrecked, squirms under the attention. In the moonlight, Pete looks like something unreal.

Pete groans low and thick when he comes, slumping down against Patrick again. One hand is still in his pants, the other white-knuckled against the headrest of the driver's seat. He laughs a little, twitching weakly against Patrick's legs.

"Patrick Stumph," he says, just a little breathless. Patrick waits for him to finish, waits for him to say anything else, but Pete just repeats his name, grinning like it's something funny.

With the rush of sex wearing off Patrick can feel all of his sore spots, every single one of them throbbing in time to his heartbeat. There will be bruises in the shape of the seat buckles and the shape of Pete’s fingers. Patrick can’t wait to look at them and remember. 

The inside of the car is suddenly stifling. Pete unlatches the door behind him and topples out, letting the breeze inside. Patrick follows after him. Outside is cool and calm and full of the Chicago skyline in the distance. They lay out on the grass next to the road, quiet and sated.

"You're amazing," Pete eventually says. His eyes are dark and focused, watching Patrick's every move. It's the first time he's really been addressed on his own as something special.

(You two are a menace. You two are beautiful. You two, you two, you two. Martinnpatrick like Samneric, a blur of skin and mouths and red hair.)

Patrick hesitantly rests a hand on Pete's and is rewarded with a goofy grin. Pete's fingers wrap around his. They fit together well. 

On the way home, he texts Martin, _I met a guy_. Martin doesn't answer. For once, Patrick is okay with that.

\---

Patrick spends most of his summer playing music and sleeping in Pete’s bed. His mother is thrilled that he’s found someone to be around that isn’t Martin, but she’d probably be less excited if she knew what they were doing through the night.

Pete takes him to weird bars and diners, talks non-stop about stupid things he’s done and stupid things he wants to do. Patrick is enamored, unable to break his fascination no matter how hard he tries. He hasn’t mentioned Martin. He hasn’t told Pete about his family, or invited him inside again. For all Pete knows, Patrick is an only child. It's a lot like a lie. 

Joe gives him a blunt the night Martin’s due home and Patrick dutifully smokes it with the rest of the band. It makes him feel like he’s expanding across the entire room, sinking into the couch and floating up out of the basement all at once. He hangs onto the couch and Pete and tries to listen to whatever Joe’s saying. 

He ends up making out with Pete in Joe’s little brother’s room, half slumped against the Transformers sheets. His phone buzzes seven times against Pete’s thigh, reverbs back into his already vibrating skin until he doesn’t notice it anymore. He feels giddy, light, like he’s been told a joke he can’t quite shake. 

“Got another boyfriend?” Pete asks, slick mouth against Patrick’s. It’s the first time he’s said _boyfriend_. It’s the first time he’s said anything real about them at all.

“Not exactly,” Patrick answers. There’s a fluttery feeling in his chest that he can’t quite pin down. Boyfriend.

He goes home with an aching head and a heavy stomach, a point of pain on his neck where Pete had bitten him too hard. He nearly runs Martin over on his way into their bedroom. For long moments he’s so acutely grateful that he can’t breathe.

Martin hugs him, full and hard. Patrick hugs him back. They trip walk back into their room without letting go, collapsing onto Patrick’s bed in a fit of laughter. Martin’s got a sunburn across his nose and smells like coconut, but he feels solid and familiar in Patrick’s arms. 

“You asshole,” Martin says. His breath is hot against Patrick’s shoulder. He jabs his knee into Patrick’s shin. “I called you like ten times.”

“I was busy,” Patrick mumbles, unable to stuff the giddy feeling rising up in him back down. 

Martin pulls away from him, lifting up onto his elbows. Patrick squirms under him, heat creeping up into his face when Martin's eyes narrow. He knows that Martin can tell everything that he’s been doing. Part of him doesn’t want to share, but the rest of him wants to tell him all about Pete and the band and how he’s been trying to figure out if losing his virginity to Pete is a good idea.

“So,” Martin says. He presses a thumb into the sore spot at Patrick’s neck, laughing meanly when Patrick tries to bat him away. “Tell me about your guy.”

“He’s in my band,” Patrick says. “His name’s Pete.” 

There’s so much more Patrick wants to say, so much more that he can’t really express. He wants to tell Martin about the way Pete makes Patrick’s chest ache and his palms go slick, wants to tell him about the way Pete's words crawl under Patrick's skin and stick to his insides like a long forgotten song. There aren't words enough for Pete, even in the language of MartinnPatrick. 

“He's good to you?” Martin asks. Patrick shrugs. Pete's the best thing to have happened to him, but there's no way he can say that without embarrassing himself. The screen door crashing into the kitchen wall gives him an out, but he can feel Martin watching him even as they tumble down to help their mother with the groceries. 

Patrick isn’t ashamed to say they fall asleep in Patrick’s bed tangled up together, too tired to separate. He wakes up feeling whole for the first time in months.

\---

They start senior year with a renewed sort of vigor. Patrick has big plans with the band, and Martin’s been writing non-stop. He’s going to have a novel by the end of the year, he swears to _god_. They haven’t talked about college plans. In reality, Patrick can’t imagine either of them going. 

Patrick skips out on homecoming weekend to record their very first album in a friend of Pete’s basement. He sings through the night and into the mornings, barely able to stay awake through the last choruses. He sleeps and dreams and eats their music until he feels like it’s all that's holding him up. 

After they’ve played the last note of the album, Pete drags them all the way into the city to the Pick Me Up for breakfast. Patrick normally loves their face-sized pancakes, but the thought of eating makes him feel sick. There's enough caffeine in him to fuel a city, but his eyes still burn if he so much as blinks. He’s going to sleep for a week.

Patrick drinks as much coffee as his tired, empty stomach will let him, eyes blurring every time he looks up from the Muppets covered table. All he wants is to go home and finish his bio homework before he collapses into bed, but he lets Pete tug him around and does what he’s told to do. 

When he does finally get home, he climbs the ladder up to Martin’s bunk and flops down on top of him. They haven’t slept apart since Martin’s come home, barring the last few days. Patrick doesn’t really want to think about it. Martin grumbles and shoves sleepily at Patrick until he’s against the wall, only half under the covers. Patrick sleeps like the dead. It’s a rest well deserved.

He wakes up to Martin’s hand in his boxers, fingers warm and familiar and softer than his own. He doesn’t pretend it’s Pete, but he doesn’t look up either. They’ve done this a few times before, twisted up together in the dark. This feels different somehow. Like Martin has something to prove.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Patrick mumbles, pressing his face into Martin’s throat. He thinks about Pete, and he thinks about Martin, and he tries not to feel like there’s an ultimatum waiting for him.

\---

“I’ve got a dollar and a dime that says you’re not telling me something,” Pete says. He’s climbing his way up onto his roof, huffing like he’s been running. There's sweat stains creeping through the jacket he's wearing over his polo, making the fabric dark at the small of his back. 

“You’re paranoid, Wentz,” Patrick says. He prods at his laptop moodily. The grass under him is a little damp, but there’s no way he’s climbing up there with Pete. He’ll hold the camera for Pete’s stupid pranks, and he’ll shout encouragements from far away, but he wants plausible deniability just in case something goes horribly, terribly wrong.

“It’s true,” Pete says. He’s got an umbrella in one hand and a pair of busted up goggles in the other. “I’ve got the medication for it and all.” He pops the umbrella open and strikes his best Superman pose. “Start filming, Stump.”

Patrick reluctantly sets his laptop down and picks up Pete’s camera. This is the sixth _shoot_ he’s been on in a month. Pete’s on break at school and his boredom is showing. Patrick would rather be working on new music, but time spent with Pete isn’t ever time wasted. No matter how stupid he’s acting.

Patrick clicks the camera on and focuses on Pete’s grinning face. He doesn’t bother to hold his breath when Pete jumps off the roof. He’s starting to believe that Pete can do anything.

\---

Their mother dresses them in matching outfits for the family reunion. When she isn’t looking, they switch shirts. Patrick in blue, Martin in red. It’s an old trick, but it never really gets boring. She calls them by the wrong names when they go downstairs. Some things never really change.

The drive to Gurnee is long and boring. Their mother and father have been quiet lately. Tense. Martin’s been saying they’re going to get divorced, hushed in the darkness of their room. Patrick doesn’t want to believe him, but there’s no sign pointing to anything else. It’s left them alone at dinners and breakfasts, left to fend for themselves. Martin makes a mean omelet, and Patrick’s getting pretty good with pasta. Neither one of them comments about how tired their mom looks, but Patrick can see the concern written across Martin’s face every time they’re with her.

Patrick plays Evening Out With Your Girlfriend for Martin sheepishly, one earplug for each of them. Martin grins the whole way through. It’s not anything all that great, but Patrick’s proud of it. This is his first album. This is his first step in making real music that people will listen to.

“Why don’t you tell me when you’re playing shows?” Martin asks. It’s a whisper, barely loud enough for Patrick to hear. 

Patrick still hasn’t told his band about Martin. He feels selfish and cold, greedy. He’s afraid that if he tells them he’ll stop being Patrick to them. He’s afraid that it’ll be Martinnpatrick all over again, both of them tossed into one inseparable package. (He’s afraid that they’ll pick Martin over him, musical talent notwithstanding.)

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Patrick mumbles.

“That’s bullshit,” Martin hisses. He tugs his earphone out, letting it drop onto the seat. 

Patrick rolls his CD player up and tucks it quietly into his bag. Martin isn't looking at him. He has to know why, isn't stupid, but Patrick can't get the words out. They stick in his throat, gummy and cold. 

When they get to the park, Martin is the first one out of the car. He slams the door behind him and storms up to the picnic area. Patrick follows behind him slowly, head hung. Dealing with Martin's anger is still leaps and bounds above his parents' forced happiness.

"Oh Martin," Aunt Marie says when Patrick passed by her. Patrick flinches. "You and your brother have grown so much." She pulls him over and fusses his shirt collar and tells him all about her daughter and how Uncle George is getting over a tough case of stomach flu. She smells like a heap of roses, overpowering. Patrick smiles and nods through it all. 

He and Martin had tried to beg out of coming, but their mother had given them the stern, disappointed look that neither of them could even begin to go against. By the fourth relative that calls him Martin, Patrick begins to wish they'd tried a little harder.

"I'm tired of being you," Patrick says when he finally reaches Martin. 

"I could tell," Martin says dryly. He's hurt. Patrick doesn't apologize. 

They sneak into their cousin's room, avoiding family members. They're a weird middle category of age, too young to really be with the adults too old to be with the kids. It's never been a problem before, but now Patrick feels like his world is too narrow -- claustrophobic with just the two of them. They swap out shirts, shivering in the air conditioning. Patrick tries to cover the dark marks on his chest, but he knows Martin's seen them. He's not ashamed. He's not.

"You should let me meet him," Martin says. 

Patrick fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Pete's been asking about Patrick's family for months, pestering him for baby photos and after school sleepovers, and Patrick's been carefully deflecting each request. It's gone past something he's just forgot to mention and moving into lying territory.

"He doesn't know you exist," Patrick finally says.

"I figured." Martin runs a hand through his hair, eyes closed and chest expanding as he breathes in deep. Patrick wonders if he's got the same stress marks in his own skin, if the tells of his anger and rage and sadness are as translucent.

Patrick’s not expecting it when he’s shoved back into the wall, when his head bounces off of Jeremy’s Lebron James poster. He startles, fists already clenching, but Martin is on him, trapping him against the wall. They haven’t fist fought for months but it feels like it’s due. These days, Patrick doesn't recognize the similarities in them anymore. These days, he feels like they're running in separate directions as fast as they can.

There’s a hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side, and he lashes out with his legs. His sneaker bounces off Martin’s leg, sends vibrations up his shin. Martin bangs his head into the wall again. Light flickers behind his eyes, makes his stomach churn as he tries to right himself. Martin sucker punches him, catching him in the gut, and the pain blurs into his anger. They both shout when Patrick head butts him. 

It’s enough to make Martin stumble backwards, but Patrick’s too dizzy to take the advantage. He shoves at his brother’s shoulders weakly, fingers stuck on the feel of cotton under them, too hot under the sun leaking in through the window. Martin’s always been stronger than him, always just been a little faster than him, always been one step ahead. Patrick’s been too wrapped up to see it, but with Martin gathering up for another attack, he can feel the jealousy under his brother's skin like something tangible. He’s ahead for a change, and Martin can’t stand it.

“Fuck you,” Patrick spits. He's breathless, lungs burning.

“What happened to you?” Martin shoves him again, but it’s weaker. Has less heat behind it. “When did you become the kind of asshole that lies about me? Fuck you. You want to be an only child? Fine. When this year’s over I’m done with you.”

“Martin --” Patrick’s heart stutters. He’s tired of being so fucking torn between Martin and the rest of his life. 

“You don’t get to play picks,” Martin hisses. The red mark on his forearm is turning darker, bruising already, and Patrick can feel the darkness gathering around his own eye. Their mom is going to be so pissed. 

Patrick kisses him. It’s desperate and confused and lost and angry. Martin bites at his mouth, wraps a hand in his shirt to yank him in. For a moment, Patrick can pretend like it’s just them -- that Pete and college and the band don’t exist. One day he’s going to have to give something up, and more and more it looks like it’s going to be this. 

“Let me meet him,” Martin says, voice a low rumble against Patrick’s lips. Patrick keeps his eyes closed. This isn't fair.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says instead, swallowing down the guilt before it can make him take it back. 

“Do you _love_ him?” Martin asks. He draws it out, makes it sound like an insult. When Patrick’s quiet for too long, Martin steps away. “I just want to see him. I won’t ruin it.”

They get curious stares when they join the rest of their family again and, as predicted, their mother’s lips go tight when she sees them. Patrick is already dreading the ride home, her lecture already in the back of his mind as he aims himself at the table with the food. Martin stays by his side. After he’s eaten, Patrick texts Pete.

At least he’s lying to both of them, he thinks bitterly. 

\---

Pete picks Martin up at seven. He smiles when he climbs out of his ugly car and gathers Martin up to his chest. Patrick watches from their bedroom window, stomach tightening as Pete lets go. He'd been hoping that Pete would notice something off about him. That he'd be able to tell that he was talking to someone different. Then again, no one plays him better than Martin does.

Patrick spends the night on his laptop, poking at the songs the band has been working on. They're good, really good, but his heart isn't in it. He's stuck with Martin and Pete, left trying to figure out how long it's going to take for both of them to leave him for each other.

The wallowing is pathetic. Patrick forces himself to roll out of bed and into the shower. He's going to clean himself up, change into his pajamas, and write an awesome fucking song. That is something that's all his and fuck anyone that comes between him and that.

When Patrick settles down at his laptop a hazy twenty minutes later, he opens his files and cracks his knuckles and does everything he can to whip it into shape. The music surrounds him and slides easy out of his fingertips and changes step by step into a rough outline into a real song, catchy enough to make him sing along under his breath.

He's lost track of the time, but the door opens and Martin is there. He's damp from rain, hair stuck to his face, shirt gone dark with it. Their room is chilly; fall time weather sinks in through the window, and Patrick can see his goose bumps from across the room.

"How was the movie?" Patrick asks. The bitterness he was expecting is barely there at all.

"Stupid," Martin says, stepping out of his shoes. He climbs into Patrick's bed, all damp, clammy skin and raindrops falling onto the sheets. He smells like ozone, like the burning before lightning. He presses his mouth to Patrick's, hard and sure. "I didn't touch him."

Patrick would have to be an idiot to think that Pete didn't touch Martin anyway.

Patrick lets himself be laid down on the bed, shivering a little in the cold. Martin's skin is clammy. Soft. Patrick slides his fingers between chilly skin and soaked shirt and breathes in the smell of rain. He wonders what Pete had done. Wonders how far Martin let him get before backing away. When Martin kisses him again, Patrick can almost feel Pete on him.

"How far have you gone?" Martin asks. He tucks his knee between Patrick's thighs, pressing up against Patrick's hard on. Not enough, but more than enough to make him ache down to his bones. 

"Hands," Patrick answers. Not that he hasn't wanted to go further. He's imagined Pete's mouth on him, his mouth on Pete. He's imagined Pete inside him, wrapped up in him and making him a new person entirely.

Martin rocks against him, the hard line of his dick digging into Patrick's hip. It hurts, but Patrick wouldn't ask him to stop if he could. They fumble with their shaking hands, rocking against each other shamelessly. Martin gets Patrick's pajama pants down first, wraps his hand loose and slow around Patrick's dick.

"Pete tried to rub me off in the theater," Martin says. Patrick closes his eyes and thinks about Pete's hands on Martin (on him.) Martin jerks him lazily, not really enough for Patrick to get off on, like he's got all the time in the world. He leans in to press his mouth against Patrick's cheek, lips slick and hot against his cold, cold skin. "He kept talking about how he wanted to fuck me in the bathroom."

Patrick rocks up into Martin's hand, biting down on the groan that's working its way up his throat. Martin kisses his throat, bites down softly. Patrick can feel Pete on him like a second skin, can already see the places Pete's influenced.

"Sit up," Martin says, pulling back. His head nearly hits the top bunk as he adjusts himself over Patrick. Rain drips down from his nose, lands cold and wet on Patrick's cheek.

Patrick huffs when the heat around his dick disappears, but he struggles to sit up, pajama pants sliding down to his ankles. His cock curls up against his t-shirt, red and slick at the tip. He imagines Pete there with them, dictating their movements, jerking off in the corner. Heat curls up in his belly at the thought, so close to embarrassment that Patrick can feel himself turning red.

"I want to be here first," Martin says, fingers curling around Patrick's dick. "I want you to be my first."

"You're so dramatic," Patrick says. Still, he spreads his legs wider when Martin nudges at his thighs. Martin's a drama queen, but Patrick's not going to turn him down when he's like this. 

"Stop ruining the moment." Martin ducks his head down, back arched, and presses a kiss to Patrick's stomach.

Patrick looks down the long line of Martin's neck, tangles his fingers up in Martin's hair. It's soft in his hands, clean. Patrick knows it's coming, but he still hisses when Martin licks a line up his dick. It's hot, so hot, burning down into his skin.

"Fuck," Patrick breathes out, fingers tightening in Martin's hair.

It feels too good, all heat and slide and slick against his skin. Martin takes as much as he can, looks up at Patrick like he's daring him not to enjoy it. All Patrick can see is the stretch of his lips, pink and damp. That's what he would look like with a dick in his mouth. 

Martin takes his time. He can’t be comfortable, his neck bent down too far and his back arched for too long, but he doesn’t break the steady, sure rhythm that he’s built up. Patrick watches him with half-lidded eyes, trying to keep his hips still. It’s so different from a hand, better. He can feel every movement of Martin’s tongue against him, testing the weight of him out. 

Patrick’s orgasm is slow and drawn out. He stuffs his pillow over his face to muffle his groans, lifting his hips off the mattress as far as Martin will let him. Everything is hazy and soft, nothing but Martin’s mouth and the pulse in his dick, and Patrick wants to stay like this forever. When it gets to be too much, he tightens his fingers in Martin’s hair, gasping out his name. 

Martin swallows. Patrick’s cock twitches tiredly. 

“Fuck,” Patrick says again. He opens his arms to Martin, wincing when his jeans scrape against Patrick’s dick. He can smell the salt on Martin’s breath. It’s gross and kind of hot and weird all at once. They lay there for a long moment. Patrick can feel Martin's dick hard against his hip but he can't quite work his hands. Or his lungs.

"This could be the beginning of something good," Martin says, lips brushing against Patrick's jaw.

Patrick doesn't know if it is or not, but when he can breathe again he rolls Martin over and returns the favor. Practice, he thinks, can only make him better.

\---

The band loses TJ, but Patrick picks up one of his dad’s old guitars and fills in for him. It feels better to be stuck behind an instrument. (He also starts wearing more hats. Stocking caps and baseball caps and whatever he finds on Pete’s floor. Pete says he’s hiding. Patrick says he’s making a fashion statement.) 

Pete likes to keep him out late on school nights, taking him out to the city like he’s getting away with something. Patrick climbs the Sears tower with him on a Thursday night, laughing and huffing and crawling up stair after stair. They stop every third floor, Patrick wearing out way before Pete, and catch their breaths in each other’s mouths. By the sixteenth floor, the laughter has died out, but Pete presses Patrick to each third wall, kisses him until his heart slows enough to climb higher. 

When they reach the thirtieth floor, Patrick pulls Pete into the building. His thighs ache and his head is a little dizzy. They wobble their way through to the bathroom, the glow from the city creeping in brighter than the fluorescent lights above them. Patrick uses his newfound skills, listens to Pete moan in stereo echoes, and feels something like smugness inside his chest.

He texts Martin details afterwards, sleepy and content on the elevator ride down. 

They’ve been sharing, Patrick more reluctant than Martin. It's still not fair. In sixth grade, Martin had dated Sharon Rice for seven months. Patrick hadn’t been jealous or curious or anything. Then again, Martin’s always had a fondness for anything Patrick had first. From toys to clothes to books to boys. 

“Sometimes, you feel like two different people,” Pete says. They’re in the driveway, engine idling, radio up almost too loud. He leans in to kiss Patrick’s cheek, big teeth out for a stupid grin. “Keep it together, Stumph. We can’t both be crazy.”

“You’re an asshole,” Patrick says. He’s not, not really, but he laughs whenever Patrick says it, bright like he’s hearing it for the first time. 

“I do what I can.”

When Patrick lays down to sleep too many hours later, Martin’s right there with him. 

\--- 

Patrick is failing English. 

He stares at the printout of his report card, blinking at the ugly red _F_. He’s got three months to get it out of the gutter, or he’s going to be stuck in summer school without his diploma. He can also kiss the tour goodbye. Fuck, he’s got a headache. Joe brings him weed like an offering.

“Pete can probably write your papers for you,” he says, voice drawn around a throat full of smoke. He breathes it out in a rush, the sound of his breath echoing off the windshield of his car.

“I don’t want Pete to write my papers for me,” Patrick replies. He hates the way pot smells, but it makes him feel stretchy and loose and sends all the stress away. It tickles his throat in a way he knows is bad for his voice, but he can’t really make himself care. “Other people are always doing shit for me. I just want to be my own person, you know? Not a half of anything. Or a third. Whatever.”

Joe stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows tucked together. He looks skinny and awkward and normal. Patrick wishes he was as normal as Joe. It’s funny to him like everything else is right now, and he laughs until he chokes. 

“You’re so fucking weird, dude,” Joe says, his own weird little laugh sticking into the places under Patrick’s. “Just chill. You’re so uptight, man. Pete would, like, shoot himself in the face if you wanted him to.” He blows smoke into Patrick’s face, passing the joint over. It’s hot and a little damp at the end, tastes like medicated chapstick when Patrick takes a slow puff. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

“I call bullshit,” Patrick coughs out. He squirms in the seat, his ass gone numb. The windows are cracked down, but the smoke still makes his eyes water. Joe throws a lazy leg over Patrick’s lap, foot tapping at the door. 

“Don’t be coy, dude.” Joe wiggles his fingers and Patrick obligingly hands the joint back over. It’s almost dead, barely a cherry at the end of Joe’s fingertips. “Pete loves you in that creepy, weird way that he does.” Joe finishes the pot and throws it out the window. “You’re totally his soulmate or whatever.”

“You sound like a girl,” Patrick says. 

(Secretly, he feels warmth that isn’t just from the drugs. He knows that Joe isn’t the kind of guy to placate anyone.)

“Whatever.” Joe starts the car, leg slipping off Patrick’s thighs, and rolls the windows all the way down. “I’m done being your yenta, bro. Are you ready to write some music, or do I have to, like, paint your nails?”

“Fuck off.” Patrick slumps back in his seat, fumbling for his seatbelt. He feels better in a disjointed way. “I have an idea for this really great riff for Grand Theft Autumn.”

He spends the afternoon enjoying his high and writing music, the thoughts of his English grade tucked into the back of his mind. He’s got two English geniuses close at hand. He’ll be fine. 

\---

“I’m kind of surprised that you’re failing,” Pete says, typing a loose outline for Patrick’s next essay. He’s shirtless and tan, arms a little slick from sweat. His house is too hot, April already feeling like July. Patrick is sprawled out on his bed, his own shirt tucked under his chest.

“Why?” Patrick asks. He’s got his Mac book out, clicking through his files. They’re mostly finished, and he’s too hot to really work on anything.

“I’ve read your stuff,” Pete says, squinting at his screen. “It’s really good.” Patrick winces. Fucking Martin. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick mumbles. He rubs his temple with his thumb, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t just turn it on.”

“I got you,” Pete says. The printer clicks to life next to him, chugging along weakly. It’s old, dusty. The ink comes out green and yellow striped across the bullet points. “I can’t write for months sometimes. It’s fucking frustrating.” He collects the four pages and presents them to Patrick proudly, the waistband of his boxers at Patrick’s eye level. 

“And what do I owe you for this service?” Patrick asks, closing his laptop. He tucks the papers into his backpack, acutely aware of Pete’s eyes on him. A blowjob for an _A_ is a pretty good deal.

“Ice cream,” Pete says. He waits long enough for Patrick’s laptop to be moved out of the way before crawling onto the bed. Patrick frowns, even as Pete pushes him against the mattress. “With cherries.” 

He slides his hands down Patrick’s arms, the rough places on his palms catching on Patrick’s skin. His hair is curling a little, grown out enough from his stupid buzz cut to be loose against his forehead. The light from the ceiling fan catches on his nipple rings. Patrick is dating a hot guy that’s good at music and great in bed. He doesn’t really understand.

“Cherries?” Patrick asks, heartbeat echoing in his ears. Pete shows his teeth.

“The cherries are the best part,” he says, pressing Patrick down onto the bed. 

(He spends hours touching and tasting and squirming, laughing at Patrick’s soft sounds. When he finally, _finally_ slides home, Patrick feels like he’s going to fly apart at the seams. He’s stuck in a loop of _Pete, Pete, Pete_ , nothing but skin and heat and the steady rhythm of Pete’s hips on his. It’s perfect and weird, and all theirs.)

After, when Patrick’s snuggled up warm and sleepy against Pete’s chest, underwear barely pulled on, he presses a kiss to Pete’s shoulder and says, “I love you.”

It slides out like an accident. He closes his eyes, nerves spiking up. Under him, Pete laughs almost soundlessly, his arms coming up to wrap around Patrick’s chest. 

“Yeah?” He says, lips brushing against Patrick’s forehead. “I love you, too.” Patrick doesn't leave Pete's bed for a long time. 

(His paper is late, but he still gets a B plus. He figures it's a win/win.)

\---

"I let Pete fuck me," Patrick says casually, scribbling down answers on his bio lab. He feels weird saying it, kind of squirmy. Above him, the top bunk squeaks as Martin moves.

"When?" He asks, head poking out. There are pillow lines dug into his cheeks, proof of his on again off again nap. Patrick shrugs.

"Yesterday," he answers. All night is the correct answer. He's not really sore, but he can feel all the places where Pete was. "I told him I love him."

"Do you?" Martin asks. He doesn't climb off his bed.

"Yeah," Patrick says. He feels it bubbling up inside him every time he thinks of Pete's smile or Pete's voice or Pete's words. There's a mess of sound from the bunk when Martin sits up. Patrick can hear his textbook opening; he can hear the scratch of his pencil as he starts up on his own homework.

"What about me?" Martin asks eventually.

"What about you?" Patrick asks tightly. He tucks his homework neatly between the pages of his book and sets it on the floor.

"Are you just going to leave me?" Martin asks quietly. 

Patrick closes his eyes and slumps back against the bed frame. He'd known this was going to happen, but he still doesn't have anything to say. They're so fucked up. Stuck together with their genes and their fucked up dependencies and their -- their _incest_. They're not just illegal, they're _sick_.

"What do you want?" Patrick asks tiredly. "If anyone finds out about me and you we could be separated. We could _go to jail_." They wouldn't do well in jail. Sick them, small them. Sexual deviants are always the ones that end up dead. 

"You're the one being melodramatic now," Martin says. He's quiet for a while, his pencil tapping against his book. "What would Pete think?"

"I don't know," Patrick answers. He thinks about the things that are all corkscrewed in Pete's brain, thinks about all the stuff he's seen and done and been okay with. "I don't --" Patrick sighs. "Why does he even matter to you?"

"Maybe I like him a lot, too," Martin says. His textbook falls past Patrick to thump heavily on the floor. Patrick laughs, bitter.

"Of course you do." He makes room for Martin on his bed, only a little annoyed when a swinging foot catches him on Martin's tumble down. "Why can't you ever just let me have something for myself?" Martin shrugs, his arm sticking to Patrick's. The bed is getting too small for both of them.

"I want to be there in case anything hurts you," he says.

Fucked, Patrick thinks. They're totally, totally fucked.

\---

Patrick skips out on graduation to go on tour. His mother gives him a long-winded speech about how she's always wanted to see _both_ of her boys walk across stage, but Patrick can't even be bothered to feel like he's letting her down. He's going on _tour_. It's unbelievable.

"You just didn't want to tell Pete," Martin says later in their room, one arm in his giant graduation robe. Patrick helps him slide the other side on, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not going to pass up a show so that I can get a fucking piece of paper." Patrick does up his buttons and steps back. He doesn't need to go through the hassle. Martin's always been the one that was about books and school and college, not him.

The gown is a little long. It pools around Martin's feet, bright against the carpet. He looks different. Patrick reaches for the mortarboard on the dresser, finally aware of how much is going to change. It's over. High school is finally over, and Martin will eventually go to college, and Patrick will start recording their second album. Everything is going to change.

Carefully, Patrick settles the cap on Martin's head, straightening his hair under it. He won't get his tassel until tomorrow, but Patrick can already see him walking across the stage, smile bright and head held high. (Martin's the one that's going to be something. Patrick knows it.)

"Good luck," Patrick says, leaning in to kiss the corner of Martin's mouth.

"You too," Martin says, breath hot against Patrick's lips. He curls a hand around the back of Patrick's neck, pulling him in until they're front to front. "Call, alright?" His forehead is pressed to Patrick's, his mortarboard almost tipped all the way off his head.

"Yeah," Patrick says. It's hard to speak over the nerves crawling up into his chest. "I will."

"And Pete --"

"I'll figure something out," Patrick says. There's no way he can let Martin talk to Pete, but he can probably figure out a way for Martin to hear him.

"I love you," Martin says. His mouth is quirked, ironic. Patrick's stomach turns. He thinks of last summer and Martin leaving him for camp and wonders how long they can make this last.

"Yeah," Patrick says. He tangles his fingers up in Martin's gown and feels him. "Me too."

Even later, when he can't sleep, Patrick writes a song's worth of lyrics and texts them to Pete. The part of him that isn't ready to be out on the road is terrified.

\---

Ohio sucks.

Patrick thumps down in the grass behind the venue, bored and a little tired and sore from being stuffed into the van for too long. He can hear Mest sound checking, Tony's voice wafting out through the open back door. Pete's been weird lately, not sleeping and not really talking. Patrick's caught him popping prescription pills in the middle of the night, eyes dark and face drawn. 

He's known about Pete's bipolar disorder from almost the beginning, but he's never seen it in action. It hurts to see Pete so down on himself, but there's nothing Patrick can really do.

(He calls Martin a lot, worried and worn and a little homesick. Martin shushes him and tells him about classes and their mom. Patrick tells him stories about Pete and the road and shows. It's enough to keep Patrick going.)

The sun feels good on his skin, warm and bright. He's got a driver's tan, his left arm darker than his right one, and he can feel the tingle of a burn starting on his nose and cheeks. He wants to do something, restless, but with their sound check in an hour he's stuck. 

At the end of the tour is a week and a half worth of studio time. Patrick's seen Island Records on the paperwork, signed his name in a daze beside Pete and Joe and Andy's. The demos on his laptop aren't good enough for a real record. Nothing he's got will ever be good enough.

"I can smell you thinking," Pete says, head poking out of the door.

He's running around in his underwear, brand new tattoos on display. Patrick had sat with him during the last one, wincing every time Pete cursed. He'd held Pete's hand like a good boyfriend and told him plans for new songs and ideas for merch, unable to watch the ink grow against Pete's skin. 

"What do my thoughts smell like?" Patrick asks, rolling onto his front. Pete flops down next to him.

"Bacon," Pete says after a moment. "Delicious, delicious bacon."

"I don't know how I feel about that," Patrick says dryly. Pete laughs. There's a crease across his face, wrinkled and red. He's been napping on the couch. Patrick's a little relieved, even if it means he'll be stuck up with him all night.

"Delicious," Pete repeats. He leans back on his elbows, legs spread and eyes sliding closed. "You're going to give me cravings, dude. Shut it off."

"Says you." Patrick tugs at the grass in front of him idly, watching the clumps of dirt pull free from the ground.

"Seriously," Pete says. He kicks at Patrick's leg idly. "What are you worried about?" Patrick shrugs. He's not really in the mood to hear one of Pete's rambles about the future and their potential and whatever bullshit Pete has in mind. 

"The album," Patrick mumbles. He sighs, pushing himself to his feet. It's probably time to start warming up. He’s not surprised at all when Pete tugs him back down. 

“Hey, no.” Pete wrestles him down, so much skin slipping over Patrick’s hands and bared stomach. “Look, worry about Joe breaking his arm or Andy leaving us on the side of the road or me finally going off the deep end. Don’t even think about worrying about you and music.” Pete sits heavily on Patrick’s stomach, knocking his breath away. Flat on his back, all Patrick can see is the sun bright in the sky, eyes burning against it. “You can do anything, man. _Anything_.”

There are sunspots behind Patrick’s eyelids when he closes them, red and black and dancing. This overwhelming faith feels like a stone on his lungs. He shoves half-heartedly at Pete’s legs. He really does have to start warming up. 

“I’m serious,” Pete says, even as he scrambles to get back inside. There are grass stains on his knees and dirt on his stomach, bare feet sunk into the ground. He’s completely earnest when he says, “I believe in you.”

That makes two people in the world, Patrick thinks. He nods, breaking away and into the hot venue. Maybe that’s enough.

\---

“How’s college?” Patrick asks. His phone is warm against his face, pressed between his cheek and the pillow of the first bed he’s seen in weeks. 

“Just like high school,” Martin says. He sounds sleepy. Patrick hadn’t bothered to check the time when he’d dialed, but he can’t imagine Martin is really all that mad at him for waking him up. “How’s life on the road?”

“I hate cars,” Patrick moans. “And vans and semi trucks and anything car shaped.” He’s pretty sure he can still feel road vibrations under his skin, melting in with his bones and his blood. They have a rest day and Patrick plans on spending every last second in this bed. He will murder anyone that tries to make him move. 

“The life of a rock star,” Martin says dryly. Patrick can hear the grin in his voice. He thinks about Martin in his brand new dorm room, surrounded by books and a new roommate and a new life. It’s scary and awesome, and Patrick wishes he could see it all in person. “How’s Pete?”

“Pete-like,” Patrick answers. He’s been sleeping more and eating less. Every day is full of Pete schmoozing with people that might get them somewhere in the future, building up his list of contacts. Patrick trails after him like a puppy, lost and out of place, trying to be useful. “He’s on a mission to, I don’t know, be the next Smashing Pumpkins.”

“You’d be a shitty Billy Corgan.” 

Patrick laughs into the pillow. He can feel the sun on his face, warm even through the window and blinds. For the first time in forever, he’s all alone and loving it. When he hangs up with Martin, he’s going to take a midday nap without any shame. Tomorrow they head back out, aimed for some town with a venue half the size of the last one they played. It’s not ideal, but Patrick doesn’t even notice anymore. Everything is just a blur of unfamiliar faces and the same songs in his throat and at his fingertips.

“I miss you,” Patrick says after a pause. They’re no good at being apart.

“Yeah,” Martin breathes. Patrick can hear him start to say something else, can almost see Martin’s mouth shaping words, but the sound of the door creaking open tears his attention away.

“Don’t move,” Pete whispers, slipping inside. He sticks the do not disturb sign on the doorknob, grinning as he locks the door behind him. On the other side of the phone, Martin’s breath hitches.

Patrick places his phone on the nightstand, keeping his thumb very carefully away from the end call button. He barely has enough time to roll over before Pete’s on him, heavy and warm. He smells like he’s been running around, earthy and a little sweaty, energy bleeding out of him and into the sheets.

“I’m not letting you out of this room,” Pete says, mouth sliding down the curve of Patrick’s jaw. He has dark rings under his eyes, part eyeliner and part tiredness. Patrick brushes his thumb over one, smiling stupidly.

“I didn’t plan on it,” he says. 

Pete wiggles out of what few clothes he’s wearing, fucking the blankets up and knocking Patrick’s thighs with his knees. Patrick watches him, one hand on Pete’s flat stomach, the other tossed up uselessly above his head. He’s barely eighteen and having sex in the afternoon with his hot boyfriend in the middle of a tour. Life, he thinks, is pretty good to him sometimes. Pete lifts his hand, presses a kiss to his palm, and then puts it next to his other one. 

“Stay put,” he says, low and soft. Patrick wonders if Martin can hear it, if he can imagine what they’re doing. 

Patrick stays, only lifting his hips when Pete moves to take his boxers off. The tube of slick is still under the pillow where Pete had stashed it the night before. Patrick kind of wants to drag it out, wants Pete to pin him down and suck him off before he fucks him, but Pete’s antsy and a little jerky, hands everywhere at once.

He bites at the thick muscle of Patrick’s thigh barely on the right side of too hard. Patrick doesn’t bother trying to stifle his gasp. He wants Martin to hear, wants him to know what it could be like. So far, he’s been good, kept his hands to himself even when Pete’s tried to make him go farther. Patrick doesn’t know if he could do the same. He moans at the graze of Pete’s tongue against his balls and thinks of it as a reward for the both of them.

It kills Patrick to keep his hands above his head. He wants to tangle his fingers up in Pete’s hair, wants to grab at his biceps, wants to drag Pete up and kiss him stupid. Instead, he twists his fingers together and lets out a shuddery breath when Pete slides two of his own fingers into him, slick and maybe too much.

“I’m going to fuck you through the bed,” Pete says, biting at Patrick’s thigh again. Patrick’s going to have a bruise or two, will be able to feel them every time his guitar moves against him tomorrow night. 

Patrick rocks against Pete’s hand. It feels good in a raw way, makes him feel like nothing could go wrong. He’s louder than he usually is, and Pete responds to it eagerly, rougher than he usually is. Patrick wonders what Pete would do to Martin, if Martin would twist like he does, or if he’d be as still as Pete wants him to be.

“Fuck,” Pete says softly, eyes dark. He drags Patrick to the end of the bed, hands too tight around Patrick’s calves. This isn’t really how Patrick had planned on spending his off day, but Jesus Christ he’ll take it. “Turn over.”

Patrick lets Pete manhandle him onto his front, legs dangling off the end of the bed. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed, dick driving into the mattress, hips jerking on their own. Pete grabs a handful of ass, nails biting, and Patrick moans again. Martin, Patrick thinks, would fight. He’d argue and make Pete work for it.

Pete slides into him bare and hot and Patrick wonders if he’s stupid for trusting Pete not to give him something from his train wreck list of hookups. He’s trusted Pete with everything else, and this seems like something small in comparison. The bed squeaks and squeals and Patrick ratchets up his own sounds, staring at his phone. He bets Martin’s jerking off, one hand on himself, the other holding his own phone up tight against his ear. 

Pete presses him hard into the mattress, keeping him still. The sound of their hips smacking together is filthy. Patrick feels so full, so helpless, and it's intoxicating. Every one of Pete's fingers feel like they're going to melt right into Patrick's skin. Each time Pete thrusts into him Patrick's dick rubs against the quilt, rough and a little painful and not nearly enough.

"Can I pull your hair?" Pete asks, low in his throat. Patrick nods, eyes squinching closed when he feels Pete's hand slide up his back and into his hair.

Pete pulls, hard enough to make Patrick arch his back up and off the bed. It's good and weird and Patrick has just enough leverage to hump against the bed like the teenager he is. He can feel his orgasm in the pit of his belly, rushed and eager. He wonders if Martin's close too, if he can hear how Patrick's falling apart. 

"Fuck," Pete says softly. His nails scratch against Patrick's scalp, hanging on tighter. "Fuck, I love you."

Patrick groans. He comes into the sheets, explosions under his skin. Everything feels raw and exposed and he's so aware of Pete's touch and Martin listening and the quiet _ah, ah, ah_ against his neck that he feels more than hears.

Pete comes on Patrick's ass, slick and sticky, his hand tightening on Patrick's hip hard enough to trip into actually painful. Patrick hisses. He's going to hate all of this the next few days on the road, but right now all he can think of is how good it all feels. Pete collapses on him, obnoxious as ever.

"You're crushing me," Patrick groans. His scalp stings. "And I'm disgusting."

"You're never disgusting," Pete says. He smacks Patrick's ass with an open palm, laughing. It makes Patrick aware of exactly how sore he is already beginning to feel. 

"Washcloth," Patrick says. He really does feel gross.

When Pete climbs off of him, Patrick crawls up the bed, sprawling ungracefully. He waits until he hears the water running in the bathroom to reach for his phone.

"Have a good time in class," he whispers. Martin laughs breathlessly.

"Don't stay up too late."

Patrick makes no promises. 

\---

The summer passes in a rush of shows and noise and colors. Patrick finds his place on stage and loves it, revels in the way his guitar feels and his voice sounds. They may only be the opener, but there's kids in the front row that scream for them and sing the words to a few of their songs. 

Pete slides up to him on the last night of tour, bass half out of tune from being dropped, and leans in against him. He's heavy enough that Patrick stumbles, mouth bumping against his microphone. There's a moment when Patrick thinks he's going down, legs almost giving out when he feels Pete's lips brush his throat.

A few kids cheer. Patrick laughs, breathless at the end of a verse, and feels like he's on top of the world. This is his life and these are his people.

After the show, Tony gives him a Miller Light. Patrick has to hide it away from the security guard, the x on the back of his dark and bold, but it tastes like victory when he finally sucks down his first drink. (He coughs a little when Jeremiah slaps him on the back, unaware of how small Patrick is next to his bulk. All three bands laugh at him. Patrick doesn't even care.)

"You're a rock star," Pete says. He's got a bottle of Sprite in one hand, too full of chemicals to drink anything even like alcohol. 

"Maybe," Patrick says.

He spends the night tacked to Pete's side, one hand on his beer, the other in Pete's, watching him schmooze and woo fans. He signs seven autographs and one pair of shapely tits, and calls Martin from the bathroom right before they get kicked out.

"I think this is going somewhere," Patrick shouts into the receiver. He's two hours behind Chicago, and it's already one o'clock here. 

"Good luck," Martin mumbles. He sounds sleep thick but proud. "See you tomorrow, rock star."

"Tomorrow," Patrick repeats.

This is only the beginning.

\---

Pete kisses him long and hard and messy when they drop Patrick off at his house. It's almost midnight, a long drive made longer by their unwillingness to admit that everything is over. Patrick hangs on to Pete's hoodie until Joe starts making rude comments from the front seat. 

“Fuck off, Trohman,” Pete says cheerfully, pressing one last kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “Rest up. We have a record to make.”

Patrick watches the van drive off down the street, his little dented home on wheels. When he can’t see the taillights any longer he fishes his keys out of his pocket and lets himself inside. He’s surprised at how sharply he feels _home_ in his chest.

There’s a note on the fridge from his mother, written in her curly cue handwriting. She’s left a plate in the microwave for him. Patrick grins and heads over. When he peeks in, he sees a thick cut of lasagna. He hasn’t had real food in over a month. 

He eats his dinner cold, dropping his duffel bag off in the laundry room. The house smells like lemons, like his mother’s perfume. There’s no trace of unwashed boy or molding food or dirty socks anywhere. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he never left at all. Above him, the ceiling creaks. Martin’s awake.

Patrick stuffs his plate into the dishwasher dutifully before making his way up the stairs. He can hear music coming from their bedroom, faint but definitely his own. Patrick grins to himself. Somehow, he’s still not sick of any of it. If he could, he’d play a show right now, into his empty living room. 

“Hey,” he says softly, pushing the door open. Martin is laying on the floor in his boxers, flipping through a notebook. Patrick’s own voice breaks on the recording. 

“Hey,” Martin replies. He’s got a smudge of ink on his chin, messed in with his stubble. He’s been writing. 

“How’s the novel coming?” Patrick asks. He sinks down onto the carpet next to his brother. The exhaustion from tour is finally catching up to him.

“Shittily,” Martin answers. He tucks the notebook away. He looks just as tired as Patrick is, dark circles starting up under his eyes. There’s a red patch on his chest from the floor, matching spots on his elbows. “I had this big coming home plan for you but-” He breaks off on a yawn, jaw cracking and eyes squinting shut. Patrick can’t help mirroring him.

“Yeah, me too.”

They crawl into Patrick’s bed, flopping down on top of the covers in a heap. Martin is warm and familiar and good, and Patrick falls asleep caught up in him, right where he belongs.

Patrick’s woken up by the smell of bacon. His stomach rumbles, even as his eyes protest opening. He knows without question that his mother has made a feast downstairs. Martin’s breathing softly against his throat, leg thrown over Patrick’s hips. He groans when Patrick shoves at his shoulder, burying his face into Patrick’s chest.

“Breakfast,” Patrick says. He rolls Martin against the wall. His arm is asleep, pins tingling down into his wrist when he tries to wriggle it out from under his brother’s head. “Wake up or I’m eating yours too.”

“Dick,” Martin mumbles, reluctantly rolling to the other side of the bed.

“Jackass.” Patrick kisses the sleepy corner of Martin’s mouth. “Not kidding about eating your breakfast. I’m starving.”

Patrick stumbles downstairs in his boxers and tour damaged t-shirt. He’s only halfway into the kitchen when he’s scooped up into his mother’s arms. The embarrassment of it is pushed out of the way by the part of him that’s always going to be a homebody.

“Hey, mom,” he says, hugging her back. 

“You look starved,” she says, holding him at arm’s length. “Were you eating out there? Sit down.” Patrick laughs and lets himself be dragged to the dining room table. He was right about the feast. It’s covered from end to end, way too much for the three of them to eat in one sitting. He winces when his mother shouts up the stairs for Martin. "I swear, that boy hasn't left that room since he's come home."

Martin's still yawning when he shows up in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy child. Their mother sighs, but Patrick can see how happy she is to have both of them under the same roof. She piles food onto their plates in heaps, chattering about their Uncle Dave's adventures in gardening.

"How was your trip?" His mother asks when she finally sits down. Across the table from him, Martin snickers.

"Great," Patrick answers sincerely. He tells them stories about Joe's unending quest for Pizza flavored Doritos and Andy's network of basements and bedrooms. His mother looks a little horrified, but Patrick can see her holding back, trying to encourage him. "It was the best time of my life."

"I'm happy for you, baby," she says. She pats his hand with hers, cool and dry and laden with rings she's had his entire life. 

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. 

After breakfast, Patrick washes the dishes, listening to the stories Martin tells about classes while he dries. They keep bumping into each other, soap slick hands sliding up under shirts and over bare arms. They excuse themselves when the last dish is done, scampering up the stairs like they've always done 

Patrick stretches out onto his bed, full and content. He’s not really tired, but the idea of laying around all day is too awesome to pass up. It’s even better when Martin lays next to him, scrunching in on the edge of the mattress. They’re getting too big for it, but Patrick can’t imagine not being this close. 

“When do you start recording?” Martin asks.

“Next week.” Patrick doesn’t really want to think about it. Pete’s been reassuring him that the songs are good and that their producer is great, but Patrick’s got the everlasting doubt in the back of his mind that he just can’t shut off. “When do you go back to school?”

“Two days.” Martin tucks his hand into Patrick's, twisting their fingers together. Patrick's fingertips look grey next to his, rough from nonstop playing. Different.

Patrick hasn't really thought about the ways they're becoming different. Martin's always just been there, his mirror and his brother and his baseline. In two days Martin will leave him alone in the bedroom they've always shared. In a month, Patrick will move into a shitty little apartment in the city with Pete and Joe and officially leave everything of his childhood behind.

"I can hear you thinking," Martin says. He raises up on his elbows, looking down at Patrick. Patrick shrugs. 

"We won't really see each other much soon, will we?" He asks. 

He can feel Martin’s heartbeat under his hand, slow and steady. When they release the album, there will be another tour, and maybe a headlining one after that, and- and-

"Hey," Martin says gently. "Stop. You're panicking." He throws a leg over Patrick's thighs, shoving himself up. "We'll see each other. I'll, I don't know, go see your shows when you're close. And we can hang out on the weekends when you're home, and --"

"It's never going to be the same, is it?" Patrick asks.

"Stop it," Martin says. He kisses Patrick, soft and easy. "Hey, I have a present for you." 

"What?" Patrick cranes his neck up, looking over Martin's shoulder. He hadn't seen anything last night, but he'd also been halfway to falling over. Martin grins. Patrick doesn't think he's ever managed to make his own face look quite that sly.

"Has Pete let you fuck him?" Martin asks bluntly. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, familiar and easy. Patrick stops short. He’d been so caught up in actually having sex at all that he’d never considered the other way around. 

“I never asked,” he eventually says. He’s got a pretty good idea of where this is going, but he still sucks in a shallow breath when Martin crawls off of him to slide out of his underwear. He grins, more comfortable naked than Patrick ever has been. “Are you --”

“Don’t question it, little brother,” Martin says. 

“Oh god. Don’t say that when you’re naked.” Patrick knows what they do is wrong. He doesn’t really need to be reminded about exactly why. Martin stretches up on his toes, patting the top bunk down. There’s a weak pattern of freckles across his ribs, a tiny patch of growing hair on his chest. Patrick wonders if this is what Pete sees, if the details of Martin are the same ones that make him up. 

“Be gentle,” Martin says. He’s got a bottle of lube in his hands. He sounds calm, but the pinkness that’s spreading from his cheeks down across his chest says otherwise. 

Patrick shimmies out of his own underwear, shirt balling up under the small of his back. When Martin settles back onto his thighs, bare skin sliding against bare skin, Patrick swallows back a surge of nervousness. He remembers how gentle Pete had been with him, how he'd talked him through it and laughed and kissed him. 

(He remembers every detail like it's been burned into him. Pete's hands and Pete's mouth and Pete's name tripping off his tongue like he couldn't hold it in.)

"I trust you," Martin says, pressing the lube into Patrick's hand. He leans in, mouth brushing Patrick's ear, and says, "I tried some things while you were away."

Patrick does not think about Martin slicking his fingers and sliding them into himself. He doesn't ask if he did it on the phone that time Patrick had called him from the relative privacy of the Safeway bathroom, both of them breathless and laughing as they played at talking dirty to one another. He just spreads lube on his own fingers and slips his hand between Martin's legs, hoping he can keep it together long enough for both of them to enjoy it.

Patrick shivers right along with Martin when he presses the first finger in slowly. He's tight and soft and warm, and Patrick's dick jerks a little at the thought of being there. Martin squirms impatiently over him, setting the pace. (Patrick is too horny to think about how there's some great symbolism in that. Later, he'll wonder how much of his life Martin has influenced. Later, he still won't really care.)

"Two," Martin says. He bites his lip when Patrick nudges a second fingertip into him, breathing out a slow, shallow moan. "Be rough if you want." Fuck. Fuck. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut.

"I don't want to hurt you," he says tightly, hand shaking against Martin's skin. Martin laughs.

"What if I want you to?" He asks, rocking into Patrick's touch. "Maybe I want to feel it when I'm alone in class and you're off living happily ever after with Pete."

Patrick clenches his teeth and refuses to rise to the bait, ignoring the sting. He twists his wrist, feeling a little vicious when Martin groans. He won't feel guilty for falling in love. He won't.

Martin bats Patrick's hand away, settling himself over Patrick's hips. It's probably too soon, probably too much when Martin sinks slowly down onto Patrick's dick, but all Patrick can think about is how good it feels. 

"Fuck," Martin hisses. He's biting his lip, hands thumping down onto Patrick's shoulders, pinning him in place. "Fuck." Patrick can feel every inch of him, skin buzzing where they’re touching. When Martin rocks his hips slowly, Patrick swears under his breath. 

Martin’s thighs shake a little when he lifts himself up, a slow drag that makes Patrick’s toes curl. The blush across his skin hasn’t faded. Patrick touches what he can, tries to distract himself from the coil of urgency already pulsing under his skin. 

There isn't enough room for Martin to sit up, but he grinds his hips against Patrick's, his dick dragging wetly over Patrick's stomach, and it's one of the most amazing things Patrick has ever felt. The pressure of Martin's palms against his shoulders is shifting into something almost painful. Patrick latches on to it, even as he tries to thrust his hips up into him.

It's almost embarrassingly short. Patrick stutters out a weak warning before he's coming into Martin, biting down on the moan in the back of his throat. Martin rides him through it, letting go with one hand to jerk himself off. The feel of him is almost too much around Patrick's softening cock. His body goes tight when he comes, his nails digging into Patrick's skin, mouth open and eyes closed.

(Patrick knows he looks like that after Pete's fucked him. Pete's shown him in mirrors and in darkened phone screens and in dirty pictures Patrick tries to pretend don't exist. It's got to be narcissism that tells him Martin's beautiful.)

"Holy shit." Patrick winces when Martin moves away from him. He feels like a fucking rag doll. 

"Yeah." Martin flops down on him, sweaty and a little gross, and buries his face into Patrick's neck. "You should tell him."

"What?" Patrick knows Martin can hear his heart beating, knows he probably felt the skip. He wraps a limp arm around Martin's back, skin sticking where they're both sweating.

"You should tell Pete about me," Martin says. He kisses Patrick's cheek, lips dry and soft. "Think about it. I know you, Patrick. Lying to him is killing you."

"Martin --"

"It's Pete. He'll jump at the chance for a threesome." Martin pulls back, grinning. "He loves you. Maybe he can love me, too." It's as melodramatic as Martin always is, but it still settles into Patrick's chest like poison, making him feel a little sick and a little sad. Sometimes, he hates how well Martin knows him. "We can be happy together. All three of us."

"I don't --" Patrick squirms until he can sit up. The post sex looseness has left him. "Why do you always have to do this? Why can't we just lay here and fucking cuddle like normal people?"

"When have we ever been normal?" Martin asks sharply. "Trust me. Just tell him. We could be happy." For the first time Patrick can remember, he looks desperate. He's always been the rock, always been steady and sure and in charge. "Please." Patrick does the only thing he knows how to.

He says yes. 

\---

Patrick can barely breathe. He kisses Pete gently, lips brushing over the wry smile Pete’s been wearing for days. Martin’s just outside the room, waiting for Patrick to come get him. Patrick’s been stalling, mouth on Pete’s skin and hands shaking against Pete’s hips. It had seemed like such a good idea the day before, when everything had just been words.

“I have something I need to show you,” Patrick says, teeth sinking into the soft, tender skin of Pete’s throat. He tastes like salt, like sweat, familiar and good. Patrick can smell the cologne sticking to him, can taste the chemical residue left behind. 

“Yeah?” Pete grins, lewd. He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows raised. He wriggles his hips under Patrick’s, hard on digging into Patrick’s thigh. 

“Yeah, I just --” Patrick crawls off of him, heartbeat thundering in his ears. This is it. He swallows when he reaches for the door handle, slick palm skidding off it the first time he tries to turn it. 

Patrick’s back is turned to Pete when Martin walks in. He doesn’t know what the reaction is, isn’t really sure he wants to know. He brushes his fingers over Martin’s hand, trying to steady himself. Now that he’s here, it doesn’t seem like such a great idea at all.

“Pete, I uh.” Patrick turns, head down. He can’t bring himself to look up. “You’ve already met, but this is Martin.” _My twin_ is left off, too obvious and tacky and weird in Patrick’s mouth anytime he says it. They’re something else, and everyone they’ve ever met has known, and Pete isn’t _saying_ anything.

“Hey,” Martin says, just as uncertain. The bravado he's been wearing all day is fading away almost visibly, leaving him shrunken in on himself.

“What do you mean we’ve met?” Pete asks slowly. He looks overwhelmed, like he can't tell what to do with them. He hasn't moved from the bed, legs still spread, bare chest a little slick. Patrick can see the spots his mouth left, dark and already bruising. He doesn't want to share either of them.

(He's rarely greedy, but both of them are _his_ and it's not _fair_.)

“Martin, uh. He pretended to be me sometimes.” It sounds stupid as soon as Patrick says it. Fuck, they’ve been doing this their whole lives, flipping themselves sideways and back until no one could tell the difference. Blessing and curse, Martinnpatrick, a whole in the end even if they didn’t want it that way.

Pete sits up slowly, running slow fingers through his hair. He stares at Patrick, confused. Maybe a little hurt. Patrick drops his head. He's tired of making people upset.

"So, what, you've been --" Pete waves a hand between them and himself.

"We share everything," Martin says. It sounds a little sharp. Patrick won't realize for years that he was the one with the most to lose.

"I'm not a fucking Lunchable," Pete snaps. "I'm a person, and it's fucked up that you guys could fucking -- could use me like that."

"It's fucked up that you couldn't tell it wasn't always me," Patrick says quietly. 

Patrick reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor. He's not really sure how he'd expected this to go, but in his head things always went better. He doesn't think Pete will call off the band, but he's already waiting for their hesitant relationship to crumble.

"Stop," Pete says, reaching for him. He doesn't quite grab on, but Patrick can feel the heat from him. "Just. Give me a minute." Patrick pulls his shirt on, backing away. He doesn’t quite lean against Martin, but he can feel himself inching towards him. "Who -- "

“I’m older,” Martin says, cutting Pete off. There’s color in his cheeks, dark and getting angry. “Yes, we’re completely identical. Patrick was with you first.” Patrick can see where Martin’s going, can feel coldness creeping up into his skin. “We’ve been fucking around since we were thirteen. No. You don’t get just one of us.”

Martin lets out a shaky breath. There’s a moment of silence, thick and uneasy. Patrick can see his future leaving him already, flashes of shows and shared beds going up in smoke. He’ll always have Martin. Always. But, man, he’s in love with Pete in a way he's never felt before. Martin takes his hand, curling their fingers together when Patrick makes no move to.

“I --” Pete closes his eyes. He looks tired. “I don’t even know what to say to that.” 

“Are we too fucked up for you?” Patrick asks. He’s sat up for nights with Pete, keeping him company while he’d clawed at his skin, unable to do anything but hang on. If anyone could understand fucked up, it's Pete. He'd been relying on it.

“Fuck, can you just shut up?” Pete shoves up off the bed, getting into their faces. “Can I get five fucking seconds to process that you’ve been _lying to me_ about having a _twin_ for the entire time I’ve known you?” He shoves Patrick’s shoulder, and Martin stumbles back with him. “I thought we were together, but you’ve been fucking someone else the _entire time_. Fuck you for making me the bad guy here. Fuck you.”

Patrick feels like he’s been punched in the chest. This close, he can almost feel the rage pulsing in Pete’s temple. He hadn’t thought -- Martin isn’t another person like that. They’re a whole, have always been a whole even when they’ve tried to peel themselves apart. 

“Get out,” Pete says. His jaw ticks, clenched down tight, one arm thrown toward the door.

“Pete --”

“Both of you, get the fuck out.” Pete shoves them again, one hand on each of them. They nearly topple over each other, feet tangling up. 

“Pete --” Patrick lets go of Martin’s hand, trying to catch Pete’s wrist. Pete punches him in the mouth. He feels his teeth cut into his lip, feels blood against his tongue even as his hands rise up to test it.

There’s an explosion of sound, Pete and Martin shouting, the sound of fists against skin. Patrick stands stunned in the middle of the room, hand pressed to his bleeding mouth. Time feels like it’s slowed down, stuck into the middle spaces of his heartbeats. He watches Martin bang gracelessly at Pete’s shoulders and jaw, watches Pete’s lip curl up in a sneer. He can’t move.

Pete rolls them over and cocks his fist back, the muscles in his back and bicep bunching. Martin looks small under him, struggling but weak. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“We’ll go,” Patrick says, words stumbling out. They hurt, drag across his split lip like salt. “We’ll go.” Pete doesn’t look at them when they leave. Patrick feels like his heart’s a stone in his chest, sinking with each step. 

"I'm sorry," Martin says when they get home. Patrick jerks away from him. It had been stupid to listen to him, and he'd _known_ it.

"Just stop," Patrick says. "Just. Stop." He crawls into bed, ignoring the sunlight filtering in through the window. To his credit, Martin leaves him alone. Patrick closes his eyes and hopes that Pete won't destroy them.

\---

Patrick hasn't left his bed in two days. His stomach hurts and his head feels dizzy but he can't make himself move. Martin checks on him every few hours, silent but there. Patrick wants him to go away, wants to sleep, wants to – to -- 

"You're being pathetic," Martin says on the last time, quiet enough that Patrick barely hears him.

"Fuck. You." Patrick curls up around his stomach. He thinks of the album and the vague tour outline on the calendar in Joe's room and Pete -- He's as good as lost it all. "Get out."

"This is my room too," Martin says. 

"Like Pete was your boyfriend too? Like my life is your life too?" Patrick yanks his blanket up higher. He can smell himself. It's fucking disgusting. "I'm done. I tried to keep everything and I got fucking nothing. So fuck you and fuck off."

"That's not fair --"

"Fuck. You." Patrick closes his eyes. "I'm done." It doesn't even hurt when Martin walks out.

\---

Pete doesn't show up for the first day of recording. The tension in the room stretches them all thin, bleeds into the music. Patrick's voice sounds weak over the playback. Tired. He takes his headphones off before he can hear everything. This isn't going to work.

Andy leaves with the producer, apologizing for Pete. Patrick's head hurts. He can remember Pete going on in spirals about how the band was the only thing keeping him together, angst drunk and desperate for meaning. Patrick can't imagine him giving it up for anything.

"You look like shit," Joe says. His guitar is still out, placed carefully against the wall. He's upgraded from the tour, found a guitar that actually suits him. "Come on, Patrick. What happened?"

There's a lot Patrick could say, but nothing comes out. He can't tell anyone. He can't ask for help. It's him and him and him, and he _hates_ it. Joe hugs him. It's not enough at all, but Patrick clings to it hopelessly. He feels young and stupid. Weak.

"It's okay, dude," Joe says softly. He pulls Patrick in tighter, squeezing him until he can barely breathe. Patrick feels like he's going to break the second Joe lets go of him, just fly into useless pieces. "Breathe, man. Breathe."

"Pete broke up with me," Patrick says, words sharp over his tongue. It makes his chest hurt. "I hurt him pretty bad." Joe squeezes him tighter.

"It's Pete," he says, chest rumbling against Patrick's. "He'll come back for you." Patrick laughs, pressing his face to Joe's shoulder. He smells like weed and worn down cologne, familiar from so many nights stuffed together in the van together.

"Not this time," Patrick says.

"I think you're wrong," Joe says. He ruffles Patrick's hair as he pulls away, smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

He walks past Pete on his way out.

"How long have you been there?" Patrick asks. He can't meet Pete's eyes. Instead he stares at the dark skin across Pete's cheek, the bruises on his arms. His lip is split down the center like Patrick's, fresh enough that it's still bleeding down his chin. Pete shrugs.

"Long enough," he mumbles. He's leaning against the door, head down. Patrick wonders what wall he got into a fight with, wonders if he's been sleeping or taking his meds or driving himself into the ground. He feels guilty.

Neither of them moves. Patrick can't feel his hands, can't move, can barely breathe. The equipment around them is still buzzing with the sound of their recordings, drum beats and half laid guitars and his own voice cycling over the same verse. It sounds hollow coming out of the headphones on the table, barely recognizable. It's annoying but Patrick can't move to switch it off. 

When the silence has stretched on for too long, Patrick manages to clear his throat and ask, "What happened?"

"Martin came over this morning," Pete says. He touches his fingertips to the bruised skin under his eye and winces. "He has a shorter fuse than even you."

"Yeah." Patrick laughs despite himself. He can see Martin shoving himself inside Pete's mom's house; he can see him taking the first swing without prompting. "He's always been like that."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Pete asks. He finally pushes off the door, letting it swing shut behind him. The rest of the building is going dark, people going home for the day. Someone will probably kick them out soon.

"I --" Patrick sinks down onto the couch, rubbing weak hands over his eyes. He's so damn tired. "You were the first person who ever saw me as just Patrick."

Pete slides down next to him. He's wearing a beaten down hoodie even though the studio is overheated. Patrick stares at their grass stained sneakers, thinks about last year when everything was coming together, thinks about Pete kissing him in the backseat like it was something important. 

"We love you," Patrick says. He pauses, the words stuck in his throat. As tired as he is of saying _we_ , he couldn't imagine being anywhere but at his side. "I love you." 

"Sometimes that's not enough," Pete says slowly. Still, he turns his hand palm up where it's resting on his thigh. His skin is smooth and warm under Patrick's fingertips, tense. Patrick hangs on, eyes slipping closed. 

"Where do we go from here?" He asks. There's nowhere left to go but up. Pete squeezes Patrick's hand, tight enough to grind his knuckles together.

"Tomorrow, we come back here and work on the album," Pete says after a long moment. "Then we go sign the lease for the apartment." Patrick can hear him swallow, can feel him moving, but still can't look at him. 

"And tonight?" 

"Tonight we go tell Joe that he's going to have to move somewhere else," Pete says. Patrick breathes out a long sigh of relief. The band that's been tightening around his chest snaps. "Martin wants to meet them officially. He kind of insisted."

"Yeah," Patrick says again. He laughs until it hurts, his stomach aching and his lungs sore, until Pete pulls him into a hug that hurts almost just as much.

"Breathe," Pete says. He rubs his hand over Patrick's back gently, shushing him. It's usually the other way around. "Come on, get your shit together. We're going home."

\---

"Huh," Joe says. He looks from Martin to Patrick and back again. When he reaches up to prod at Martin's face, Patrick bats his hand away irritably.

"He's not an alien," Patrick huffs.

"Dude, there's two of you," Joe says. The waitress stops for a moment before passing them by. Patrick sighs. He's starving. "It's weird."

"Technically, we're still separate people," Martin says. He's got a shiner and a cut on the inside of his shirt collar. No one has mentioned how fucked up he and Pete look, and Patrick's grateful for it. "What with the egg splitting and all."

"Semantics." Joe waves a hand between them before narrowing his eyes at Pete. "How are you not having spasms about two Patricks?" 

"Martin isn't Patrick," Pete says sharply. He's hunched down next to Patrick, staring at his menu. They've been here hundreds of times and get the same thing every time. As cool as he'd been about it in the studio, the hesitant way he reaches for Patrick means it's not really over. On Patrick's other side, Martin tenses.

"Stop being a jackass," Andy says. It isn't really clear who he's talking to. All of them, maybe. "It's nice to officially meet you." He offers his hand, but doesn't seem that surprised when Martin doesn't reach for him.

"You knew?" Joe asks, mouth hanging open. Andy shrugs.

"Martin writes better lyrics," he answers. Patrick wants to protest, but it's true. "You could have just said something, though."

"It's complicated," Patrick mumbles. He picks at the crumpled straw wrapper on the table in front of him. He feels like a little kid, sulking in the corner after being found out. "It's a twin thing."

"So, can you, like, read each other's minds?" Joe asks. He's making that stupid face that he always makes when he's trying not to laugh. Patrick kicks him under the table.

"I'm fucking hungry," he says, scowling. "Shut the fuck up so the waitress can take our order." Andy coughs into his hand, eyes bright behind his glasses. Patrick's band is full of assholes. 

Half an hour later, they've moved on from twin talk to band talk. Pete's warming up in slow increments, cracking jokes at Joe's expense when the opportunity arises, putting in his opinion on the sound they're aiming for. He doesn't hold himself as tightly when his thigh bumps against Patrick's. When Martin excuses himself to the bathroom, Patrick fights the urge to follow him out.

"We could probably sell the twin thing," Joe says around a mouthful of pizza. "Dueling vocalists."

"Martin doesn't sing," Patrick says. This, he thinks, is why he didn't want to introduce them. "He doesn't know much about music at all, actually." Andy's watching him in that creepy way that means he knows more than he's letting on.

"Spoil sport," Joe grumbles.

"Your mom," Patrick says mildly. He starts to press against Pete when he sees Martin coming back, trying to slide them out of the booth, but Pete holds fast. Martin slips in next to him without a word.

"A Patrick sandwich," Joe sing-songs, waving a soggy, ketchup smeared fry at them. "Your dream come true."

"I'm going to punch you in the nuts if you call me Patrick again," Martin threatens. For the first time all day, Pete laughs.

(Sometime later, when Andy's talking about his roommates and Joe's eyes have glossed over with boredom, Pete slides his hand into Patrick's. Patrick knows, _knows_ , without looking that he's done the same to Martin. Maybe, just maybe, things will actually work out.)

\---

Recording is hell.

Patrick gets a sore throat halfway through and has to sing around it for three tracks. He can hear the rasp in his voice on the playback and winces every time it loops over. They've been living on the studio floor and off donated food, too tired to go home at night and quickly running out of funds. Even Joe who has an unlimited source of energy and enthusiasm is lagging.

Martin's been staying with them, huddled up in the corner with Pete. They've been passing Pete's notebook back and forth for days, writing and rewriting lyrics. Patrick wants to strangle them both. If he has to rerecord one damn note, he's going to burn the studio down. Andy, who has been doing this longer than all of them combined, doesn't seem to care at all.

It's all worth it, every last ounce of effort and hunger pain, when they listen to the finished album for the very first time, all huddled around the sound booth like a pack of exhausted puppies. The producer hits play and sits back, smiling at them proudly. Patrick's breath is taken away. All this hard work, every thing they've done, is right here in front of him sounding awesome and real and all theirs. Pete squeezes his hand like he knows what Patrick's thinking.

They listen to every damn song right there.

\---

Martin has most of their room packed up. Patrick sidesteps the boxes carefully, trying not to let the sadness of finally, really leaving their mother's house settle in. She's got her own box of kitchen supplies packed up for them in the living room, labeled carefully in her delicate handwriting.

"Eric's going to bring my stuff from the dorm," Martin says, taping another box shut. He's shirtless, arms and shoulders tensing as he rearranges things around the room. There's sweat at the small of his back, sinking into a pair of sweats that used to be Patrick's.

"Is this weird?" Patrick asks. He climbs over a stack to flop down onto his bed. He hasn't really slept since they finished the album, too nervous about printing and circulation and reception.

"Yeah," Martin says. He kicks a box of shoes into the big pile. One of them must have scratched him. There's a long line across his stomach, red and a little raised. "But what's new there?"

Patrick scoots over enough to let Martin in with him. This is the last time they'll lay in this bed. Pete's bringing in his queen sized bed from his own parents' house. It's almost too much to think about, let alone talk about.

"Stop worrying," Martin says. He kisses Patrick slow and soft, tugs his hat off. "You take care of Pete, and I'll take care of you." Patrick sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. "It'll be okay."

As he drifts off, Patrick thinks that he might actually believe it this time.

\---

The bed is huge.

Patrick touches the military tight corners, looks at the three sets of pillows against the headboard. Pete’s stuff is already out and unpacked, tucked away in the closets and cupboards and rooms. He’s out signing papers for a new van, nothing left of him but a note on the fridge about ordering pizza for dinner. Patrick can hear Martin unpacking in the living room, swearing at the packing tape.

Patrick’s supposed to be putting their laundry away, but he can’t make himself look away from the bed. The part of him that’s terrified about becoming an adult and learning how to balance Pete and Martin and himself is stuck on how badly this could go, how easy it would be to tip this newfound delicate stability. The part of him that’s all teenage boy can’t stop himself from imagining breaking in the mattress with all three of them breathless and sweating on the plaid sheets. 

The CD is due out in two months. Patrick’s got a calendar already hung up on the back of the bedroom door, dates highlighted and marked with doctors appointments and Martin’s class schedule and future tour dates. Martin’s blocked out the day of the release party with neon green highlighter. 

Something crashes in the kitchen. Patrick winces, winding his way down the hall to check the damage. Martin’s throwing pans across the room, shouting. Patrick’s anger has always been on a hair trigger, but Martin’s comes almost without prompting. Patrick doesn’t ask.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Patrick says, picking the pots up from their heap in the corner.

“I just want to get this shit put away,” Martin snaps, shoving a cookie sheet into the drawer under the stove. Patrick leads him away from the kitchen dutifully, shoving him down onto the couch before he can break anything.

“I’m going to order pizza, and we’re going to watch a movie when Pete gets home,” Patrick says. “We have time to finish.” Martin slumps against the couch obediently. 

Pete beats the pizza home by five minutes. He’s got a stack of papers in one hand, an overflowing cup of coffee in the other. His phone is shoved between his shoulder and his cheek, the tinny sound of someone’s voice on the other side leaking through. There’s a moment where Patrick thinks he’s going to go flying over a stack of broken down boxes, but he does a weird little hop that only spills a little of his coffee onto the hallway floor. 

"No, no, yeah," Pete mutters, letting the papers fall onto the dining room table. Patrick's name is at the top of one of them, followed up by Joe's and Andy's. "We're available in October. Totally."

Patrick cleans up after him, shoving the papers into the lockbox under the kitchen cabinet and swiping a towel over the trail of lukewarm coffee he's left behind. On the couch, Martin flips the television from cable to DVD. 

"Thanks," Pete says into the phone before clicking it shut. "I," he announces, "am the best fucking tour manager we'll ever have." He flops down onto the cushion next to Martin, landing half on top of him. After a moment, he seems to realize what he's done and slides toward the other arm.

"Do I want to ask why?" Patrick sees Martin flinch, can track the way Pete's eyes fall to the floor. Things have been getting more comfortable, but there are still tense spots that haven't been worked out yet. Patrick tries to ignore them, hopes they'll smooth out eventually.

"We've got our very first headlining tour in October," Pete says. He puffs his chest out, scrawny and thin under his bleached t-shirt. "It's only four stops so far, but I just started." Patrick laughs.

"Pete fucking Wentz," he says, grinning. He thinks about recording Pete's adventures in self-destruction, knows for sure that Pete really can do anything he sets his sites on. Pete grins back.

They watch Return of the Jedi and devour their pizza, Pete pressed in the middle of them. It's nice. Patrick rests his head on Pete's shoulder, hat tipping sideways. It digs into his temple, but he's too comfortable to move it. 

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Pete's shaking him awake, talking in a low whisper to Martin. The credits are playing, the music familiar enough that Patrick hums along without really thinking about it. There's laughter, Pete's or Martin's Patrick can't tell, and then Patrick's tipping sideways onto Martin's lap, Pete sliding out from under him easily.

"Bedtime," Martin says. He grins, eyebrows raised. Patrick knows what he's thinking, can see the dirty thoughts rolling through his mind without having to ask any questions. The sound of Pete locking up seals everything.

"Play nice," Patrick whispers. Martin laughs, low in his throat, and shoves Patrick off the couch.

They follow Pete into the bedroom, bumping into each other in the hall. The easy, sleepy weight in Patrick's limbs has faded away, replaced by anticipation. He can't take his eyes off of Pete.

"Can I kiss him?" Martin asks when they've shut the door.

Patrick knows Martin's talking to him, knows that he's been dying to get his hands on Pete for months, but Pete thumps down on the bed, eyes wide and mouth open and says, "Yeah." He looks between them, lingers on their mouths, and then repeats himself. "Yeah. Go for it."

Let it be said that Martin never says no to a challenge.

He slips out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor, comfortable in his skin in a way Patrick's never been able to catch. There's a bruise on his shoulder that's almost healed, left over from the fight that brought them all together. Patrick feels its edges when Martin closes in on him, listens to soft sound of Pete getting comfortable on the bed.

"Relax," Martin whispers, breath sliding hot against Patrick's mouth. "He thinks we're hot." Martin's fingers tuck into the waistband of Patrick's sweats, pull him in until their bodies crash together. "He's going to love it."

Kissing Martin is like coming home. Patrick knows all his corners, knows the spots to touch him to make him squirm. He feels like they should be putting on a show, like they should be doing something more than making out. Something more interesting. He thinks about shoving Martin against a wall or maybe down into the bed, but then Martin bites his lip and he forgets all about having an audience.

Martin's skin is smooth and warm, his hands soft when they slip under Patrick's shirt. He tucks his knee between Martin's legs and groans when he feels Martin's dick hard and hot against him. His own jerks in his boxers. It's been too long since any of them have been laid. It's going to be a good night.

There's a thud from the bed, Pete's elbow smacking into the headboard. Patrick laughs, tucking his face into the curve of Martin's shoulder. When he bites down, just to taste there's matching gasps.

"How far do you want us to go?" Patrick asks. He sucks at the red spot low on Martin's throat, grinding his hips against Martin's. The look on Pete's face, the slack jaw and the dark eyes, makes something come loose in Patrick's chest. He likes it. He really does think they're hot together.

"Get naked," Pete says. He pops the button on his jeans, legs spread and shirt rucked up. "Fuck, I want you naked."

"Let's play a game," Martin says. He steps back from Patrick, hand shaking a little as it falls away from Patrick's hip. Patrick knows already where this is going, tries not to laugh. "Close your eyes."

"What are you doing?" Pete asks. There's a moment where Patrick thinks he's not going to go for it, but then Pete does as he's told, frowning.

"Playing a game," Martin answers simply.

"We'll get naked if you can tell us apart," Patrick says. He crawls onto the bed, dropping down to lie between Pete's thighs.

"If you can't," Martin says, resting a hand low on Patrick's back, "we'll make you keep your eyes shut."

"So pick carefully." Patrick runs his hands up Pete's thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his palms.

Patrick watches Martin lean in, slow and steady and sure, his heart thumping against his ribs. He wants Pete to know who he is, wants Pete to be able to see them as Patrick and Martin, even when they’re tangled up like this. Martin presses his lips to Pete’s, gentle and sweet and trying to mimic the way he knows Patrick kisses. 

“He’s good, right?” Patrick asks, fingers slipping into the waist of Pete’s jeans. 

(He’s good at being Martin. Sometimes, he’s better at being Martin than being himself.) The bulge of Pete’s cock is warm under Patrick’s palm, jerks under him when he presses down. Pete chases after Martin when he pulls away. Martin laughs, already moving to switch places with Patrick. They can see Pete trying to listen to them, eyebrows drawn together. When Patrick kisses him, he grins, lips twitching against Patrick’s mouth.

“Patrick,” he says. He opens his eyes, his stupid grin spreading across his face. “You’re Patrick.”

“How do you know?” Patrick asks. He stutters a little, tongue heavy. Pete laughs at him. Behind him, Martin’s gone a little tense. He’s just as surprised as Patrick is.

“I’d know that mouth anywhere,” Pete says. He yanks Patrick in for a kiss that’s wet and dirty and more silly than sexy. “I’m right. I’m totally right, and you just don’t want to admit it.” He looks up at Martin, hand still fisted in Patrick’s shirt. 

“Maybe,” Martin admits. Pete tugs at Patrick’s collar, eyes dark.

“I want my prize,” he says. "Naked. Both of you."

This is familiar, Pete helping him out of his shirt, more groping than actual helping. Patrick can hear Martin taking his jeans off, hears when his stupid belt buckle hits the floor, can feel the pressure of him climbing onto the bed with him. There are too many hands and too many legs, and of he doesn't start laughing now he's going to bust from disbelief.

"What do you want?" Patrick asks. He has to shuffle off the side of the bed to get his sweats off. Martin's already naked, knelt at the edge of the mattress like he's waiting for Pete to make up his mind.

(Someway, somehow, Patrick knows Martin's got the whole thing planned out already. Knows he's choreographing every move in his head as Patrick struggles not to fall over himself.)

"I want to watch," Pete says. It's not surprising to either of them.

Patrick fights the urge to cover himself up with a well-placed hand. This is Pete, and this is Martin, and both of them know him better than anyone else ever will. Instead, he presses his knees against the side of the mattress, close enough to touch Pete if he wants, and holds his hand out to Martin.

"Tell me what you want me to do," Martin says, fingers tangling up with Patrick's. His dick bobs between his thighs when he knee-walks over, the mattress squeaking under his shifting weight.

"Suck him off," Pete says, voice rough. He's got a hand in his jeans, stroking himself lazily. It's just like Patrick had imagined, desperate and alone in his bed back when things had first started. 

Patrick takes a deep breath, cringing at the way Martin wiggles his eyebrows. He's going to put on a damn good show, and Patrick's just hoping he can keep up. Pete kicks at Martin's thigh after a moment, urging him on.

The thing is, Martin's got just as much experience as Patrick as sucking dick. They've spent long nights together huddled around Patrick's laptop watching porn, laughing at each other's pink faces and taking down mental notes with each red, wet mouth. Pete's said things like _savant_ and _genius_ and _natural born cocksucker_. Practice, Patrick thinks, really does make perfect.

Martin teases, puts his mouth on Patrick's thighs, nuzzles the patch of hair above Patrick's cock. He wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's dick loosely, licks at the head with broad, gentle strokes. It feels good, makes Patrick's knees go a little weak. He wraps a hand up in Martin's hair to steady himself. Martin goes slow, pokes his tongue out and drags it up, up, up. In his head, Patrick knows that Martin's thinking of popsicles, his grin wry and his eyes dark. Patrick pulls his hair a little meanly.

When he finally wraps his lips around Patrick's cock, Pete's groan is almost as loud as Patrick's. The vibration of Martin's laughter sends shivers up Patrick's spine, sticks in his chest and makes his cock ache. He watches Martin's lips slide down the shaft slow, slow, slow, inching towards the base. That bastard, Patrick thinks, stifling a moan. He's already showing off.

On the other side of the bed, Pete's managed to shove his jeans down to his ankles, his knees bent and his dick a rude red in the spaces between his fingers. He's matching Martin's tempo, slow stroke down, quick jerk up, his chest rising and falling visibly. Patrick doesn't know if he should be watching Martin's mouth or Pete's hand, his brain a jumble stuck on the wet, wet heat that's hitting him in all the right places.

(He loves Pete, but no one will ever know his body the way Martin does.)

One of Martin's hands slide around Patrick's thigh, his fingertips like fire. Each time he ducks his head down, Patrick's knees wobble. He can feel Pete's eyes on them like a weight, steady and constant and heavy. Patrick can't look back, can barely keep his eyes open enough to watch the blur of Martin's hair. Patrick wants to cry a little when Martin backs away with a slick little pop, his mouth red and wet and swollen. 

"Do you want me go get him off?" Martin asks. Patrick knees him in the chest. That fucker.

"Yeah," Pete says. He meets Patrick's eyes, his Adams apple bobbing. Patrick's heart stutters. He doesn't look away when Martin goes down on him again, moans unashamedly.

Pete gets off before Patrick does, comes in thick stripes over his fingers and stomach. Heat coils up in Patrick's belly and spills out over his skin, makes him feel like he's going to implode. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Martin is good at this. Patrick's going to have to step up his game to stay on top. 

"Come on," Pete says. He touches the curve of Martin's hip, smoothes his palm across Martin's thigh. "Get him off."

Patrick can feel the moment Pete's fingers wrap around Martin's cock. He swears under his breath when Martin moans around him. He's so close, thighs shaking and heart racing. It's sensation overload, the heat of Martin's mouth and the rhythm of Pete's arm and the urgency building up in his spine. They shake apart together, Martin pulling away to moan against Patrick's hip.

They're all going to need showers. 

Patrick rests his shaky knees against the mattress and tries to catch his breath. He smiles weakly at Pete, too tired to bother with thinking about consequences and legality and morality. Maybe it's stupid of him, and maybe it'll bite him in the ass but, for now at least, he doesn't care.

Pete laughs at their faces when he wipes at Martin's shoulder with the edge of the sheet. It comes away smeared with some pretty damning evidence. If he wanted to be cruel, Patrick would point out the bit that ended up in Martin's hair, right below his ear. 

(It's gross and weird and funny and embarrassing, just like every other part of this little triangle. Patrick's pretty sure he's ready to get used to this being his life.)

There's not a lot of room left in the bed once all of them settle down. Somehow, Pete's managed to squeeze between them, all knees and elbows and sharp hips. His skin is slick and hot where it touches Patrick, the damp hollow of his knee making Patrick sweat. They need a fan for their room, too much body heat and not enough ventilation. One of Martin's arms curl around Pete, his knuckles knocking against Patrick's side.

Pete's always slept like he's fighting, legs jerking and hands drawn up into fists. One of them is going to probably end up on the floor before the night is through. Patrick latches onto Pete like it's going to stop the inevitable. Martin, he doesn't know any better. Patrick doesn't feel mean at all for hoping he's the one that ends up on his ass. 

(They may be lovers, but they're still brothers. Patrick's going to use his advanced knowledge of Pete until he absolutely can't.)

"We're good, right?" Patrick asks. He traces the lines of Pete's shoulder blades, taps his thumb anxiously against the smooth skin.

"Shut up," Martin says, muffled against Pete's shoulder. "Sleeping." He yelps when Patrick pinches his stomach, nearly toppling off the bed on his own. "Fuck you."

"Fuck you," Patrick mimics, pitching his voice up. It doesn't have any heat in it. Pete's grinning, the soft look around his eyes enough to shake away some of Patrick's worries.

"Go to sleep," Pete says. He yawns, wide and loud and obnoxious, and tugs Patrick in closer. "We'll talk later." _We'll talk later_ is usually Pete-speak for _we'll never speak about this again_. This time, Patrick's pretty sure he actually means it. Even if he doesn't, Patrick's stubborn like a bull. They'll talk one way or another.

Patrick sleeps like a fucking baby all night.

\---

They have a release party at Andy's place. The entire crew gathers up in the back yard with a keg and the grill, the CD playing on a loop in the background. Patrick ducks his head every time someone compliments it, stuffs chips into his mouth so he won't have to talk. He directs them to Pete instead.

Pete's holding court on the patio, red plastic cup in his hand, gesturing wildly. Martin's sitting with him, laughing right along. Patrick wonders how many people think it's him. He can have the spotlight. Patrick just wants to get drunk and curl up on the sofa bed until next week. 

It's good. The CD came out better than he could have hoped, and tour starts in a few weeks, and he and Pete and Martin have been spending night after awesome night curled up in bed together, laughing and touching and learning how to be a whole. Everything is coming together, but the aftermath of stress is _exhausting_.

"Yo, Stump," Joe calls, waving. He's smoking on the couch, feet propped up on the arm. Andy's going to have a fit when he comes in. Still, Patrick plops down onto the armchair next to him and takes the joint when it's handed to him.

"Which one am I?" Patrick asks, the familiar question almost a greeting. The smoke coils up in his lungs, burns going down. Stress slips out of him with his exhale, bleeds straight out of his skin. He needs to relax and enjoy life.

"No fair," Joe whines. He's the only one who still can't tell them apart. Half the time, Patrick sure he's doing it on purpose. Patrick blows smoke into his face.

"Take a guess, jackass." Patrick hands the joint back and sinks into the armchair. He kind of misses playing switch and bait. The world's always more exciting when he's Martin.

"I refuse to be brought into your fucked up game," Joe says. The hand resting on his hip is playing out the drums, fingers ticking away in time. They all know this music in their sleep, could probably recite each note by name in unison. "Dude, do you do this to Pete?"

"As much as I can," Patrick answers honestly. 

Pete's gotten better at telling them apart, has been able to see the tiny cracks in their similarities without looking too hard. It's scary and awesome and exciting, new ground for all of them. One day, he'll know them as well as they know each other. Patrick waves the joint away when Joe tries to hand it back to him. There's been talk about a set at the end of the night and he doesn't want to fuck up his voice before he has to sing. 

"Patrick," Joe says, eyes narrowed. Patrick snorts at the triumphant sound Joe makes. "You're way more neurotic." 

Before Patrick can tell him to fuck off, there's the sound of the party coming in through the back doors. There's no way to hide the smoke or the smell, but Joe still pinches off his joint and shoves it into his wallet, eyes wide when he hears them. He'll be spraying down the couch with air freshener for weeks.

Martin's the first in. He flops into what little space is left in the armchair, hip digging into Patrick's side, elbow in the small dents between Patrick's ribs. He's got a red cup in one hand and a notebook in the other, waving both of them around as he shout-talks to Pete in the kitchen. His handwriting is tucked in with Pete's, curly and small. They've ignored the lines, switched between pens and Sharpies and pencils, a rainbow of text squeezed onto the page. Patrick isn't really looking forward into deciphering it.

Patrick takes his cup, downs the last of the lukewarm beer inside it. Pete's supposed to drive them home, but the loudness of his voice makes Patrick think they'll be crashing here instead. 

(He's kind of bummed. Martin will have to sleep on the couch, away from them for the first time since they've started sleeping together. Pete's an open book, but there's some things that even he isn't allowed to share. One day, maybe they can tell the band. One day, maybe they can let their tense shoulders go and relax into themselves.)

"We," Pete declares when he enters the room, "are in need of a merch boy." He's red in the face, hoodie probably lost in a pile somewhere. They're definitely staying over. "And I know a certain English major that has three months off for winter break."

"Fuck, no," Joe moans. He huffs when Pete sits on his stomach, coughing up smoke. "I'm not playing the _which one is Patrick_ game all tour."

"Guess you'll have to learn how to tell us apart," Martin says, smiling sly and wide. Patrick laughs. "Does this mean I get to sign all of your autographs for you, rock star?"

"Like Pete's going to let me get away with that," Patrick says. Across from him, Pete grins.

"Double vision rock stars." Pete kicks at their knees with his bare foot, nearly falling backward over the back of the couch. "We'll make a fortune."

"Good to see you have your priorities straight," Patrick says. Still, he's glad that they're going to have Martin along with them. They're figure out the details later.

Patrick's half past drunk when Andy collects them for their end of the night set. It's probably going to be terrible, and they're all sick of the music, but they still wobble their way onto the back porch, snagging the acoustic guitars stashed in the hall closet. Fucking Pete is getting out easy, playing announcer instead of bassist, introducing them song by song.

Their friends still cheer at the end of each one, even though they have to be terrible. Patrick sings through the laughter, blushes every time someone calls out his name. He's going to do this for the rest of his life if he has to kill someone. 

"We are Fall Out Boy, and we're going to take over the world," Pete shouts. 

Later, when the night's wound down and the party's left, the three of them squeeze into the bathroom, exchange goodnight kisses and goodnight gropes, laugh at the way none of them can stand up on their own. Pete holds onto them like they'll run away if he lets go, huddles them up and tries to wrap his arms around them both. 

Fuck the world, Patrick thinks. This, right here, is all he'll ever need.


End file.
